


As if by Magic

by 1000autumns



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Alternate Universe - Witchcraft, Alternate Universe - Wizards, Dark Magic, Hunk and Pidge are witches too, M/M, Magic, Romance, Witch!Lance, Witches, Wizard!Keith, Wizards, theoretically, there's like a tag for everything wow, this will probably have sex in it at some point
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-27 14:32:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12583948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1000autumns/pseuds/1000autumns
Summary: In which Lance and his friends are witches, Keith is a wizard, and somehow they all find themselves recruited into an age-long battle against the Great Sorcerer Zarkon, trying to win back what they all have lost.





	As if by Magic

**Author's Note:**

> first time writing in years and of course i throw out a witchy klance au. this should surprise no one  
> happy halloween y'all

It’s a cold, rainy night in early April when Keith stumbles across the boy with the violin. The rain is steady, almost heavy enough to be called a storm, and it’s around two in the morning. The town sleeps, the street dark save for the occasional lamp every couple of meters or so. Keith will be sleeping too, soon, is already thinking about his bed in the small cabin he keeps nestled in the woods. It would be a long walk otherwise, but as soon as he’s clear of the town he’ll cast a flight spell and be home in a matter of minutes. He had had business on the other side of town, needing to drop by the run-down little bookstore that hid a surprising variety of spell books in its corners, veiled with magic from prying human eyes. He rarely ever goes into town for anything aside from restocking on similar necessities, but when he does, it’s usually at this time of the night. He doesn’t like regular humans, doesn’t know what to do with them just like they don’t know what to do with his gloominess aside from ridiculing him at any chance that presents itself.

He doesn’t notice the sound at first, either because he’s tired or thinking of something else, though it would have mattered little. When he does catch on to the music, he’s less than a block out from it, and as he turns the corner, it crescendos. In the darkness, several meters in front of him, a figure stands, arm moving in cadence with the music from its violin.

Keith freezes on instinct, senses on high alert and testing the waters for a sign of danger, but he doesn’t feel so much as a tickling of magic. It’s weird, there’s no other way to put it. Atypical situations always hint at something magical, especially at this time of the night, and any other person would have stayed put longer, waiting for something even more out of the ordinary to give away whatever secret the figure was hiding, but not Keith. He had always been impulsive, and the music is up-beat, playful, enchanting. Keith is a curious one. The figure—tall, lanky, surely a male—stands in the center of the road, where a car could come at any moment, however unlikely. It isn’t just his arm moving to the tune, it’s his body, swaying, knees bending, shoulders dipping like he’s more than just a violinist, like he’s a dancer trying to break free of the way his instrument restricts his movements. The music is by no means quiet, and he’s surrounded by houses, yet no light has come on inside the windows, no middle-aged citizens have jumped out to curse the noise-making at this ungodly hour. In fact, the town lays completely silent, save for the pitter-patter of the rain, the song, and Keith’s breath whispering from his lips. Somehow, the violinist is holding an umbrella, keeping both himself and his instrument dry, while he plays and dances. Keith can’t see his face, can’t see much other than the profile of the lower part of his body, and even that is mostly cast in shadow, because the musician stands just outside of the circle where the light from a nearby lamp reaches.

Keith stalks forward cautiously. Despite the rain pounding on the ground and the heaviness of the humid air that should all have muffled the sound, the violinist’s song is clear. He feels a rush of sudden, hungry curiosity gnawing at him, the desire to see the player’s face, and maybe he should be wary of the way it makes his blood pound—yet Keith has never heard music anything like this, and it draws him in. It’s confident, a beat so quick and strong and modern that Keith imagines he can hear heavy bass underneath it, like the dubstep in those clubs he’s always hated.

He’s so focused on seeing the man’s face as he nears that he doesn’t notice it until he’s only a meter away. _It_ is the umbrella. The violinist isn’t holding it at all—there isn’t any need. The umbrella is floating.

Keith realizes his mistake then, tries to turn back. Too late. He’s frozen in place, can’t move an inch anywhere but forward. It almost feels like there are walls behind and at either side of him, and he is certain there are—walls of magic, that is.

Keith curses his lack of luck, fingers itching to grab for the knife in his jacket, trying to come up with a strategy. All the while, the violinist finishes his song, foot tapping, final note fading into the rain. The spell breaks. The only reason Keith doesn’t attack, he tells himself, is because he still, oddly, hasn’t sensed any magic, least of all any ill-intent.

“Sorry about that,” says a voice hardly a second later. The violinist shifts his instrument and bow into one hand and grabs the floating umbrella, tilting it up until it rests against his shoulder and reveals his face. “I didn’t mean for anyone to get caught up in it.”

Keith had been right. The violinist is a young man, at most a couple years younger than Keith himself, tall and olive-skinned. His brown hair is tousled, handsome face open and energetic. Keith peers at his eyes. _Blue_. The most common mark of a witch.

Keith goans. “A witch,” he spits, disgusted, and promptly pushes past the boy to continue his way home. He’s too sleep-deprived to deal with one of those pesky goody-two-shoes tonight. Judging by the witch’s age, he’s probably still in-training at the Garrison, not even a fully-fledged witch.

The violinist snorts, but is undeterred by Keith’s attitude. “And what are you, a unicorn? Only someone with magic in their blood could hear my music. And considering you look human enough, minus that atrocious mullet, there’s not much else you could be.”

To his great dismay, the witch is trailing after him. Keith really, really does not need this.

“So what’s your name, then, mullet-head? I’m Lance.”

Keith stops abruptly, and Lance nearly knocks into him. When Keith looks back at him, he sees that the witch has packed his instrument into a firm black case and slung it over his shoulder. The rain has slowed to a drizzle, and the umbrella has gone who knows where. Lance is slouching in a way that shows he is relaxed, but his expression is expectant, like Keith is a new and interesting toy that Lance wants to play with and befriend.

“Get lost,” Keith says. “I don’t need to give my name to some dumb witch.”

“Ooh, so you’re one of those dark and broody types. Should have known the instant I saw that mullet,” Lance teases. He doesn’t seem off-put, yet, is too good-natured to find Keith anything but amusing. It’s infuriating. Keith hates not being taken seriously, especially by witches.  “What do you have against witches? And what are you, if you’re not one of us?”

“I’ll never be one of you stupid, close-minded, know-it-all bitches,” Keith snarls. He isn’t sure why he’s so worked up about this, just that Lance gets under his skin and that _God, he hates witches-in-training especially, above all else._ If he throws enough insults at him, maybe he’ll be able to shake Lance off.

Maybe it’s the fury or the absolute hatred in his tone, but this, finally, seems to get to Lance, who has gone very, very quiet and still. Keith spins on his heel, intent on freeing himself from the witch who’d stuck to him like gum on the sole of his boot.

The next thing Keith knows is that Lance is in front of him, face oddly serious, leaning in close. Keith grabs for his knife, caught off-guard, a spell on the tip of his tongue, but Lance is already pulling away, an expression of greatly wondering curiosity in his eyes.

“You smell like dark magic,” Lance says, voice hushed in awe. “You’re not a witch, you’re a wizard.”

Apparently, it’s the kind of night where things just get worse and worse. Keith doesn’t like this situation at all. He doesn’t like people acting like they’ve got him figured out, like they understand him. He hates how witches like to put themselves on a pedestal above everyone else. And more than anything, he hates that witches look on wizards like the failed, evil counterparts of themselves.

He shoves Lance hard enough to send the violinist sprawling on his ass on the wet concrete, but finds himself rooted to the ground, either in anger or something else.

“What are you, a dog? I told you I’m not one of you fucking witches. Now leave me the fuck alone and go running back to your little witch academy with your tail between your legs. That’s all any of you are good for.”

Lance stands up, indignant and just as angry. “What, is your magic not strong enough that you have to resort to using physical violence? Must be why you flunked out of the Garrison and had to turn to dark magic instead. Probably why you’re so bitter, too.”

“And you think you’re so much better than me, with all your stupid little rules and your lofty little ideals like you’re some kind of savior of mankind. Fucking bullshit, none of you witches ever do anything to help anybody. And if you cared to study anything other than that propaganda bullshit they’re feeding you, you’d know there’s nothing wrong with dark magic. It’s only “wrong” because the Garrison says it is, and not one of you bleating sheep has the brains to think outside of what you’re told. How’s it feel, to be so stupid?”

“Stupid? I’m not the one who flunked out. You and your greasy mullet did.”

“An idiot like you is probably just barely scraping by. Unlike you, I was top of my class, and chose to quit.”

“If saying that makes you feel better about yourself, fine. Your mullet tells all, and I can tell you weren’t half the witch I am.”

“Jesus, what the fuck is your deal with my goddamn hair?” With the way they’re both shouting, it’s a wonder they haven’t woken the whole town. Lance is in his face, the grip on his violin case so strong that his knuckles are turning white. It’s obvious that Lance’s tool of magic is the instrument, and it’s not one that can be easily put into action at a moment’s notice, whereas Keith’s knife is waiting just inside his jacket. If it did come down to a fight of magic, Keith would win before Lance could even open his violin case. Keith is seriously considering this option, hand itching to reach up and into the inner breast pocket where he keeps his tool. Anything to get rid of Lance, even if it is a little unfair.

“It’s fucking stupid, that’s what. But I guess that’s a perfect fit for you,” Lance sneers, and Keith decides he’s had enough.

He lunges, knife out and slashing across the straps of Lance’s violin case so that it falls to the ground with a hollow _twang_. The knife itself is dull, would never so much as cut skin even if he tried, but the magic it channels is not. Before Lance can react, Keith, with a spell to increase speed muttered under his breath, is behind him, knocking his knees out from under the witch. He jogs away, speed spell unintentionally still activated so that he ends up several meters further than he intended to be. Lance isn’t following him.

Keith should be relieved, should take this chance to leave and get home already, but with the way Lance had been pestering him, Keith had expected Lance to go after him, to, at the very least, seek out revenge. He breaks the speed spell, pausing to peer back down the road. Lance is hunched over his unzipped violin case, inspecting his instrument. Keith is afraid, for an irrational moment, that he’d broken it when making it drop to the floor. Or maybe his aim had been off, and the magic cut through the instrument as well as the strap? But that doesn’t seem right.

Either way, Keith hadn’t meant to damage Lance’s violin. Or any magic tool, really, because that is perhaps the best way to be a completely unnecessary dick. Keith is never really an unwarranted dick, he usually has a reason to be one. No matter how angry he is, especially at something so trivial, breaking a magic tool is an unwritten taboo. Magic tools were the item magic users of any kind were the most attached to. They usually had strong sentimental meaning, a connection to the user stronger than any other bond in the world, and were irreplaceable. Some magicians who lost their tool could never find another one, and were never able to practice magic again.

Lance’s violin could probably be fixed, but if he’d done damage to it, Keith should take at least basic responsibility. Fixing a magic tool meant reestablishing the flow of magic, and it could be a tricky, fickle thing. It cost a pretty penny, too.

Keith hesitates, shoulders sagging. Lance is still kneeling on the ground. Storing his own tool back in its hiding spot, Keith makes his way to Lance. When he’s within a meter from the witch, Lance rounds on him.

“Dude, what the fuck is your problem. Who does shit like this?” He’s definitely angry, but there’s an undertone of hurt, like despite the arguing Lance wasn’t expecting to be treated so unfairly.

Keith isn’t really sure what to do with himself. He’s keeping too far of a distance to see over Lance’s shoulder what the situation is inside the case is. He clears his throat and crosses his arms awkwardly, nodding in the general direction of the tool.

“Is it—okay?” he grunts.

Lance regards him for a steady moment, then turns back to his violin, and zips the case closed.

“Yeah. It’s fine. No thanks to _you_.”

Keith feels a breath of relief leave him.

“Good.” With that sorted, he turns to go, certain that Lance won’t bother him anymore now that he’s seen how volatile Keith is.

Keith is wrong.

“Hey, wait, you’re just gonna leave like that? No apology, no nothing?”

Keith has always had trouble apologizing. It’s not even his fault entirely, because the one who had started it was Lance, nosing (quite literally) into his business.

“Apologize? You started it,” Keith says, indignant.

“Excuse me? You’re the one who went and got your panties twisted over your hatred of witches. And then you nearly damaged my violin!” Lance exclaims.

“I didn’t get my ‘panties twisted,’ you just stuck your nose where it didn’t belong!”

“So sue me, I’m curious about the first wizard I’ve ever met. Here I was, thinking how cool it was, but all you wizards are apparently assholes with a witch-complex. Do all of you have those gross mullets, too?”

“Jesus Christ,” Keith groans. “Seriously, what will get you to just go the fuck away?”

Lance considers this for all of a split second. “If you make it up to me.”

“Make _what_ up?”

Lance lifts his violin case in answer.

Keith has half a mind to just leave, but he’s always considered himself to be a man that takes responsibility for his actions. _God damn it._ “What do you want?” he asks, exasperated.

Lance grins. “A place to stay tonight.”

“What.”

“You live somewhere, right? I’m out way past curfew. If I try to go back to the Garrison now, I’m going to get in so-o-o-o much trouble. I’ve already told Hunk—my roommate—that I’ll stay out for the night so he doesn’t get in trouble if I get caught trying to sneak back in and they find out Hunk didn’t report that I wasn’t back by curfew.” He’s speaking so fast Keith can barely keep up. “So yeah, I need a place to crash for a couple of hours until they open the gate again.”

The Witch Academy, colloquially known as the Garrison (in part to make fun of its strict rules and regulations) did in fact have a curfew in place, from nine at night to six in the morning, where the large metal gates would close and the wards would be reactivated to deter the various things that would awaken at night and be attracted to such a densely populated body of magic. If you broke the curfew, you would face severe consequences, because it meant that some professors would have to come to re-open the gates, take down the wards, and let you (and potentially something _else_ ) in, before closing the gates and putting the wards up again. It was a hassle, and the punishment reflected it. Suspension was common, followed by expulsion if it happened too often. However, very few ever broke the curfew, because no one ever wanted to.

The Garrison was surrounded on all sides by regular human towns and even a city nearby, and there were rather strict rules about witch trainees using magic around humans. In the Garrison, one could use magic whenever and as often as desired, and the campus housed enough magical entertainment that the human establishments outside of the Academy failed to pique any interest.

So, that just makes Lance’s presence at this time of the night so far away from the Academy even more unusual.

Instead of answering him, Keith, for what he hopes is the last time tonight, turns to the road leading out of the town. Predictably, Lance follows at his heels.

“What are you doing out past your curfew? Even dumb witches like you should know there are unfriendly things everywhere at this time.”

“What, unfriendly things like dark and brooding wizards? Yeah, I know.” Lance shrugs. “But I have a lot of energy, y’know? Magical energy. I can’t get it all out in one day and it just keeps building and building until I can’t even sleep at night, ‘cause it’s buzzing in my head so loudly. Every once a week or so, I gotta go and let it out. I can’t do that at the Garrison, because I’m not sure what the magic will do. I just play to play, not to cast some spell or something, but it happens anyway and people get caught in it all the time, just like you did. At least in a human town I can hide the magic and most of the time no one’s affected.”

Keith pretends to look disinterested, but he’s jealous, just a bit. Magical energy is innate and genetic, and isn’t something that can be increased with training. Others would say Keith’s energy is far above average, but it’s not good enough for Keith. He needs to be better than above average to succeed, to take back what he’s lost.

“Where are we going, anyway?” Keith doesn’t deem this something necessary to respond to. “Where do you live? The only thing out that way is the woods.” There’s a pause. “I can’t believe you live in the woods, oh my God. Wait, no, I totally can. Of course you live in the woods.”

Keith decides now is a good time to cast a flight spell. With any luck, Lance hasn’t reached that part of his curriculum yet, and can’t follow him into the sky. He hears Lance exclaim in surprise when he suddenly shoots up into the air, but less than a moment later, Lance has shot up next to him. Today is clearly not a lucky day for Keith.

“Dude, a little warning would’ve been nice.”

“Fuck off,” Keith retorts.

Lance chatters for the entirety of the seven minute flight to Keith’s cabin. Keith does his best not to pay attention, or to let it get to him, but he’s teetering dangerously close to the desire to knock Lance right out of the air. In revenge, Keith drops down to his home without a warning, again.

He lands heavily on the grass of his backyard, and waits. Lance drops down a moment later, scowling. “Dude, really?”

“If you say ‘dude’ one more time I swear to God I will not let you into my house,” he hisses.

Lance appraises his cabin, scratching at the back of his head. “Yeah, I don’t know, I wouldn’t exactly call this a house.”

“Do you want to sleep outside?”

“Fine, it’s a house.”

Keith sighs, walking up to his backdoor and mumbling the spell to unlock it. He’s dead on his feet, words slurring, but the lock understands well enough and recognizes his voice. Lance follows him inside and closes the door as Keith flicks the switch and light floods the entryway and the kitchen beyond. With a feeling of complete and utter regret, Keith realizes that he’ll probably have to feed Lance, too. He trudges in, toeing his shoes off before he enters the kitchen and ducks to grab a pot for ramen out of the lower cabinet.

“Ramen is the best you’re getting,” he states, turning to finally look at Lance, daring him to disagree.

In the light of the kitchen, Keith can asses all of Lance’s features that he hadn’t been able to outside in the cloudy night. Lance is definitely handsome, tan skin clear and smooth and radiant, blue eyes bright, nose slim, hair falling just short of his groomed eyebrows. Keith is not the only one observing the other carefully.

Lance is staring at him, wide-eyed. “Wait—you’re Keith,” he blurts. He looks as shocked at the words that have left his mouth as Keith feels.

“What?”

“I mean—you are, aren’t you? No, there’s no one else you could be. I should have known from the hair, but. Everyone knows you. Kinda. You’re that famous trainee who had all these hopes and things lined out for him because he was going to be the next great prodigy or something and then you suddenly quit and vanished in your last year after—” Lance trips over his words, pauses just long enough for Keith to figure out exactly what’s coming next. “After the Kerberos mission went wrong.”

Keith doesn’t say anything, but he guesses that the way he’s gone deathly still is answer enough for Lance.

“I can’t believe you quit and became—a wizard? Why? You had all these prospects, everything was laid out for you, the road was paved and you—I don’t get it. There’s no going back after you’ve become a wizard. You’re forever tainted by the dark magic,” Lance says, surely reciting the exact same two sentences about wizards and dark magic that the Garrison teachers had drilled into the heads of every witch-in-training.

“Get out.” Keith’s voice is dangerously quiet, and he’s sure Lance has sensed the change in the air. Keith might have said a lot to demean Lance and his magic, but on the inside he knows he’s wrong. Lance is powerful, very much so. He’s an extremely rough diamond of raw energy and magical power, and sensing the change in Keith’s magic is surely second nature for him. Keith might have been angry, even livid before, when arguing with Lance, but he’d never been downright dangerously, quietly infuriated, the way he is now.

But Lance doesn’t move. “No. I want an answer.”

“I don’t owe you a fucking answer,” Keith snarls and launches himself at the witch for the second time that night, knife pulled out of his jacket as he shoves Lance into the wall and presses it against his neck. “Get the fuck out or I’ll kill you. We wizards do that.” He remembers what the Garrison had taught. Wizards were evil, they used “dark” magic, and they had blood on their hands. If Lance hadn’t been afraid before, he certainly should have been now.

But Lance doesn’t back down from the challenge. There’s something to admire there, in his fierce, blazing blue eyes. He isn’t scared at all, and Keith isn’t sure why that simple fact frustrates him above all else.

“You won’t,” he says with utter confidence, tilts his head up until he’s looking down at Keith the way he hates it. “I’m not leaving until I have an answer.”

And Lance is right. Keith could kill, probably would if it came down to things. But there is no reason to kill an innocent witch, no matter how angry or tired he is. Keith is a wizard, not a killer. He’s still grieving over the Kerberos mission, but it’s been a year and a half, now, and the anger has mostly given way to pain and sorrow and exhaustion. It’s tiring, to always be so angry at everything. Keith’s anger is for the Witch Academy, and as much as Lance represents it, they are still two different things. Keith can’t muster the same kind of anger for witches that he could when the Kerberos mission was still a fresh, throbbing wound.

Keith’s internal clock tells him that it is half past three in the morning, and at this point all he wants is to get this night over with and sleep.

“I’m never giving you an answer,” Keith spits, a desperate final resort, but something he knows with utter certainty. He isn’t accepting defeat, only accepting that he doesn’t know what to do with Lance. Lance baffles him. Keith is used to people shying away or backing down from his sharp-edged insults and personality. Lance does not, even as Keith pushes him into the wall and threatens his life.

Lance is unfazed. “Then I guess you’re stuck with me forever.”

“Have fun sleeping on the fucking floor. I never said I had blankets, and I certainly don’t own another futon,” Keith tells him, turning away and stomping to his bedroom. He slams the door as hard as he can without risking damage to any part of it, and resolves himself to a night spent half hungry and sleeping fitfully.

Tucked in bed, he listens to Lance shuffle and stamp around and generally make a deliberate ruckus for a good ten minutes, before things finally settle down. The night, thankfully, has at least one mercy to offer Keith: bone-weary, he falls into a deep sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> if at any point in time you imagined Lance to be something like Lindey Stirling - you are absolutely correct
> 
> Also, I am a broke college student. If you liked this and would like to see more, please consider buying me a [ko-fi](http://ko-fi.com/autumns).


End file.
